


one day one of these fucks will change your life

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Come Swapping, Coming In Pants, Felching, M/M, Overstimulation, Rimming, sad André
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 09:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: André forces himself to smile. It’s gratifying really to know that he can give Jev things that Lorene can’t and it sends sparks of arousal through him. He wants to say no, because he’s strong and he owes it to himself, knows he has the ability to walk away from battles he can’t possibly win. With Jev it’s different though. Everything is different with Jev.





	one day one of these fucks will change your life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [higgsbosonblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsbosonblues/gifts).



> For S, happy birthday. This is not the nice kinky fic I wanted to write, instead it's horribly sad (but still quite filthy). I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> Title from the song of the same name by Stephen Duffy.

The shadows of the imposing Hassan II Mosque loom large as the car passes by, along the seafront and out towards the mountain roads that lead back to Marrakech and the opulence of the Four Seasons. André rests his head against the window, glancing at the distant lights of the freighters out in the ocean, responding to the driver’s small talk monosyllabically enough that the guy gets the hint and switches the radio on instead. The music switches from the kind of trashy euro-disco he might once have drunkenly danced to in some nightclub years ago to a smoky-voiced chanteuse lamenting the demise of her heart at the hands of all the wrong men. The French makes him think, typically, of his teammate.

It feels like a mistake having opted to take the car instead of flying back, the nearly three hour journey can be whittled down a bit at this time of night with the solitude of the roads but still it’s more time alone with his thoughts, the steady flow of them an oval he’s never wanted to drive. _I think this is it_ Jev had said a few days ago, wide-eyed and besotted. _With Lorene, I mean. This is it._

André had laughed, slapped him on the back and mumbled something about being pussy whipped.  

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stretching out his legs and pulling the seatbelt a little more slack. Checking his phone is a habit more than anything else and he immediately finds himself wishing he hadn’t, the double-date for Sam’s birthday stirring something spiteful in his chest that he doesn’t care to acknowledge. The casual intimacy of Lorene’s pose on Jev’s knee irks him in a way he knows it shouldn’t and he locks his phone and places it face down on the seat with a sigh. It’s been a long evening and the hours of team duties have exhausted him, finally now allowing the media smile to slip. It’s stupid, he’s not a rookie and he doesn’t need his hand held for this kind of thing, shouldn’t have been disappointed at Jev’s last minute change of plans. It’s not that he needed Jev there with him tonight because he didn’t, not at all. Yet somewhere along the way, he realises, he’s made the fatal error of allowing himself to _want_. He thought he knew better than that. He feels his eyes slipping closed but the road surface on this particular stretch is too potholed to allow for sleep, the motion jolting.

The driver – Younis, André learns without asking – apologises profusely, filling him in on the details of the infrastructure of the country, of the intricacies of his family life; speaking with pride about how his eldest son is a lawyer in Rabat, how he just got made partner. André zones in and out, wondering for a second how it must be to have people bound to you by blood and destined to care no matter what you do. Occasionally he lets himself think about how his dad never got to see him win Le Mans and it enters his thoughts now before he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and forces himself to pay attention to Younis if only for the distraction.

It’s only the light being switched on in the back of the car that pulls him out from sleep, blinking confusedly and looking around only to realise they’ve pulled up outside the hotel. He’d been dreaming about Tokyo again, about the thirtieth birthday party his friends had thrown him; one of those dreams where you know it’s a dream but in waking he remembers he’d been happy to be back there even if it wasn’t real. All the people he misses there together, just for him, Eriko and Takako, Yuri, James, all the people who made it a home.

 

The brief nap has left him feeling too awake to go straight to the room, heading to the bar at the back of the hotel overlooking the pool and the palms instead and ordering an _old fashioned_ even though he probably shouldn’t be drinking this close to a race. There’s no one from the team around to see anyway and he feels like it’ll settle him.

Even though the temperature has dipped, a light breeze shifting in from the snow-capped mountains, André still elects to take his drink outside to the terrace. Pulling on his team hoodie, he also gets his camera out of the small rucksack he’d taken with him, taking a couple of shots out over the mosaicked tiles, dramatically floodlit. There’s no-one around, just the quiet whirr of the swimming pool filters.

“How was it?”

André pauses, his camera still held to his face as he looks through the viewfinder. He takes another photo before acknowledging Jean-Éric’s presence, placing the camera on the glass table top and turning to look at his teammate. Jean-Éric takes a seat beside him, picking up André's drink and sipping at it in complete disregard of boundaries. André glances at him, retrieving the glass when Jev puts it back down and running his finger around the rim where Jev’s mouth has just touched.

“You know what these things are like,” he shrugs, “smiles and enthusiasm. You had fun with Sam?”

He doesn’t mean it to come out as bitter as it sounds and Jev frowns at him, lighting a cigarette and twisting his lighter back and forth between his fingers, a habit he seems to have taken up recently since he can no longer play with his hair. “It was a nice evening. He’s a good guy,” Jev adds, as if André was suggesting a slight on Sam’s character.

“I know he is,” André replies spikily. He knows he’s being tetchy, creating an atmosphere where there doesn’t need to be one. It’s difficult to stop it though, fighting hard to realign what he thought their relationship was with what he now suspects it is. If he’s honest he knows this all stemmed from earlier in the day and overhearing Jev asking Sam how he decided the right time to propose to Hollie. André has no right to be outraged but that what he’d thought a few months ago was the start of something he might subconsciously have been looking for since the decision to leave Japan had first entered his head four years ago has already disintegrated has shaken him more than he can deal with on a race week.

For a second he wishes he could tell Jev everything that’s in his head, but he’s as bad at asking for advice as he is at taking it, so it’s easier to keep his mouth shut. It isn’t that he resents Jev’s happiness, more the realisation that André has absolutely no idea how to procure any of his own beyond the superficial. He sighs, taking a long slow sip of his drink, eyes flicking over to watch Jev silently smoking, making a mental note to stop being in such a sulk. Part of it is that he knows there’s a full day of media obligations ahead, that he’ll have to school himself into playing the game when all he wants is to get out there and race and then fly straight back to Gordes, to the open spaces and solitude. When did he become so insular.

“Not with Lorene?” he forces himself to ask, catching Jev's gaze and holding it until the other man looks away.

“She’s in the room. I wanted to see you, we haven’t – I mean, I wanted to be with you tonight. She’s fine with it.”

André forces himself to smile. It’s gratifying really to know that he can give Jev things that Lorene can’t and it sends sparks of arousal through him. He wants to say no, because he’s strong and he owes it to himself, knows he has the ability to walk away from battles he can’t possibly win. With Jev it’s different though. Everything is different with Jev.

“Am _I_ supposed to be fine with it?” André snaps, irritated further when Jev gives him a puzzled look. Does he have to shake him to make him realise? Hurt clouds Jev's eyes momentarily, flooding André with guilt. He shouldn’t have assumed, shouldn’t have fallen into the trap of thinking the flirting, the fucking, the nights spent in each other’s arms actually meant this was leading to something that might be - he shudders - permanent, real. André can’t even pinpoint the moment in his life he started needing things to be permanent.

Jev looks around to make sure they’re not being watched and then leans over, resting his hand on André’s arm, squeezing gently. “You want to stop,” Jev gasps, voice wavering enough that André has to swallow down the lump that’s rising in his throat.

“I don’t know.” André closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and covering Jev’s hand with his own. “No, I don’t want to stop.” He wants to be inside Jev, wants his trust and his attention, wants to get lost in him.  
  


They’re silent in the elevator up to André’s suite, leaning against each other as the floors rise. The heat of the point where their shoulders touch feels like a fire to André, the pull of something he wants to the point of destruction. He hates that in himself, neediness and vulnerability; it doesn’t fit with the image he has of himself at all. It exists but he hides it like softness, that way no one can actually see when they’ve got to him. Jev turns to him, kissing his neck gently in a way that André can’t bear, not at all. It’s easier to crowd Jev back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, one hand wrapped around his throat to anchor him in place, kissing the whimper from his lips. He can feel Jev’s pulse beneath his fingers, the scratch of his beard. André’s knees feel weak with want.

 

The keycard cuts into his palm as he swipes it over the lock, the light flashing green. This shouldn’t be different to any other time, but Jev’s tension is palpable, André aware he’s given too much away already. In the spirit of it he grabs Jev’s arm as the other man is about to follow him into the room, looking him in the eyes. “I want you to stay the whole night,” André says, enough command in his voice that it isn’t really a question.

“Yeah, I mean of course,” Jev shifts awkwardly, unsure of himself until André takes the lead, kicking the door shut with his foot and crowding Jev back against it. Is it a given? André doesn't know, the inability he has to bring up this sort of subject something he's never been able to cut through. He steps back, just looking at Jean-Éric for a moment. There's something harsher about him with his hair cut so short, less pretty perhaps but still exceptionally beautiful, the same stirring arousal rising up in André at being close to him. He runs his fingertips over Jev's cheekbones,  through his beard and then pulls the hem of his sweater down to swipe his tongue over the warm skin of his neck. Jev moans low in his throat, tipping his head back and offering himself up, his hips shifting restlessly against André's in search of more contact. The desire André has to mark him is almost ferocious in its intensity. He bites down at the juncture of Jev's neck and shoulder, hard enough that Jev yelps and shudders, following teeth with tongue soothingly. He wants to cover Jean-Éric in marks, wants him sore and sated and still here in the morning for André to feed him breakfast, still here tomorrow and the next day. It's not something André knows how to vocalise, instead lifting the soft cashmere of the sweater and pulling it off over Jev's head, throwing it to the floor.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, raking his fingernails up and down Jean-Éric's sides just hard enough to raise light pink lines over the skin. “Fuck I want you, you have no idea.”

“I'm yours.”

Jev looks into his eyes so openly that André wants to believe him.

“On the bed,” André instructs, stopping Jev when he starts to remove his jeans. “I want to take my time, leave them on for now.”

Jev complies, lying back against the plush pillows. The bed is an opulent four poster, in keeping with the elegance of the suite, traditional North African design. Latticed screens separate the various sections of the suite, low lamps keeping the lighting subtle and almost romantic. André doesn’t hurry getting the lube from his washbag in the bathroom, stripping down to his boxers and lingering in the doorway, watching Jev laid out on the bed rubbing his cock lazily through his jeans. He looks like he belongs there, the champion holding court, more decorative than any of the elements in the room.

André tosses the lube onto the bed, crawling up the length of Jev’s body and holding him down for a kiss, licking the tang of tobacco from his tongue. He can’t help but wonder how long ago Jev fucked Lorene. This morning? A couple of hours ago? Does his dick still taste of her? Jev clutches at the sheets, fucking his hips up to press his erection against André’s. However long ago he was with Lorene, he’s keyed up enough that it gratifies André; but then Jev wanting him has never been in doubt - it’s how much he wants and how much of himself he’s willing to give that keeps André awake at night.

Jev whines against his mouth, bending his knees and rocking his hips up, trying but failing to draw André closer. “Fuck, André, I need you,” Jev whines, grabbing at André’s ass. André lets him touch, holding himself over Jean-Éric’s body and going to work on his neck again, alternating between kissing over his skin softly and sucking hickeys in a trail across his collarbone, darkening his flesh. “I love you like this,” André says, ducking his head to lick at Jev’s nipples until they’re hard. “So responsive, so fucking desperate for it.”

“For you,” Jev adds, looking up into his eyes, the mix of vulnerability and arousal in his gaze seeming to mirror André’s own emotions.

“Yeah, you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you,” André goes back to decorating Jev’s collarbone. “Anything I told you to. Such a good boy, Jev.”

Jean-Éric nods, tripping over his words in affirmation. It crosses André’s mind briefly, asking for what it is he really wants from what they're doing, what he’s always thought was never an option for him. The sacrifice has been worth it, all the times he’s stood on the podium, all the wins and the glory, the respect he’s earned. It’s always seemed a small price to pay, monogamy never holding that much appeal in the past anyway. It never seemed to matter that some avenues were closed off from him, that being with someone the way Jev is with Lorene was unthinkable. Somewhere along the way he’s lowered his guard without even realising it, allowed Jev to sink under his skin with all the jokes and innuendo, the flirtatious banter and the fucking, every city they’ve ever been to together now tainted with the ghost of a moment he hoped would live forever. He should have known better, stayed behind the camera lens of observation rather than trying to put himself on the other side of it. He should've anticipated all this years before.  


There’s a lovely pattern spread across Jev’s collarbone, blossoming more prettily than any of the gardens that colour the city. If the marks say too much, Jev still doesn’t tell him to stop. André is aware that Lorene doesn’t mind about this, but how much she doesn’t mind is unknown. If he sent Jev back to her bleeding and decorated with welts and bruises, marks that take weeks to fade, would it still be okay? André knows Jev wants her to join them, the hints he’s dropped about it falling far short of subtle. It wouldn’t be the first time, there have been many drunken nights with James and his various women over the years where André’s been content to watch or sometimes more. One memorable occasion when James had brought home a girl who knew shibari, her clever fingers teaching André how best to craft the knots in the rope. The abandon with which James had let himself go beneath their mouths and hands, bound and blindfolded, his orgasm more intense than André had ever witnessed before, is one of his favourite memories to this day.

Lorene is a different prospect. André already feels transparent in her company.

Jev shakes as André moves lower, his stomach muscles flexing as André licks over them, tracing the waistband of his jeans and dipping his head to rub his cheek over the straining denim. The scent of Jev’s arousal is enough to make André’s mouth water with longing. He’s torn between wanting to draw this out and the need to be inside Jev immediately, to lose himself in the addictive heat of Jean-Éric’s body.

“You’re mine,” he says possessively, looking up the length of Jev’s body, repeating the words just to hear Jev agree with him. Jev lifts his hips to allow André to remove his jeans, squirming in the way that makes André live for these moments. André takes his time, kissing over the delicate bones of his ankles, lifting each of Jev’s legs in turn to mouth a path up them, licking the hollows at the backs of his knees and biting gentle marks up the insides of his thighs. Jev’s fingers flex against the sheets, desperate to reach for André even though he knows better than that.

Jean-Éric breathes his name with such reverence that it makes André’s hands tremble as he strokes him over his boxers, his hand sliding up the shaft and then lightly squeezing where his balls are drawn up tight. The material is already damp with precome drooling from the head of Jev’s cock and wetting the soft cotton. André sucks him through it, reaching down to palm his own cock for a moment with a groan. “You’re so gorgeous like this, Jev, you have no idea.” He licks a finger and slips it beneath the hem of one of the legs of Jev’s underwear, encouraging him to spread his thighs wider and brushing his fingertip over his hole just lightly, circling around as he sucks on the head of Jev’s cock with renewed vigour, holding down Jev’s hip with his free hand.

“André I can’t,” Jev begs. He tastes so good, so familiar and perfect it makes André want to cry. He arches up off the bed when André pushes the tip of his finger into him, shuddering and whining as another burst of precome saturates the front of his boxers. André whispers his permission, licking and stroking as Jev’s shaft pulses beneath his touch. When André looks up to watch him come, eyes screwed shut and mouth agape, the pinks and reds of the marks decorating his neck and chest make André think of Japan, of the cherry blossom floating from the trees before it hits the ground. He swallows down a lifetime of regret, lifting the waistband of Jev’s boxers and licking through the sticky mess of his semen, flicking his tongue over the slit of his dick just to watch him writhe, nerves alight with oversensitivity.

“I’m keeping these,” André tells him, sliding off the ruined boxers and balling them up in his fist, stepping off the bed and moving around to press the used underwear to Jev’s face, heat in his eyes as he watches Jev lick his own come from them. Jev’s eyes are heavy lidded as he gazes up at André, lips wet. “I wish I could photograph you like this,” André tells him, leaning in to kiss him, slow and deep and salty. “I’d make an exhibition just for you, every part of you. People would pay to come and look at your cock and have no idea who you are, who you belong to.”

“I’d love that.” Jev reaches up to touch André’s face, André feeling his control getting away from him, pressing his cheek against Jean-Éric’s palm. “Will you fuck me,” Jev asks, “please.”

André gathers himself enough to slip back into their familiar roles, the breathy moans that leave Jev’s lips as André spreads him out and roughly fingers him open are enough to calm him. His head may be a sea of emotions he doesn’t know how to process but he does know how to fuck, how to take Jev apart in the way he loves and craves, the way that keeps him coming back.            

Jev is so tight around André’s lube-slick fingers, so hot and enticing that André’s cock jerks just from the sight of him. André teases him open slowly at first before flipping him over onto his stomach and guiding him onto knees and elbows. Jev goes with it, soothed by the command of André’s voice, eager to please and in turn be lavished in the pleasure wrought by André’s hands. His face is pressed into the pillow by the time André has four fingers fucking into him, pushing back and moaning as André strokes over his prostate repeatedly, his spent cock trying to show interest even though it’s too soon really for him to get hard again. André stretches him wide, holding him open with two fingers of each hand and dipping his head to lick into the space between, Jev almost sobbing his name, begging for it in French so broken that André only just understands. When André finally slides his leaking cock inside him he clenches down so tightly that André is forced to pause and take a couple of deep breaths, his grip on Jev’s hips bruisingly tight. He leans forward, kissing the vertebrae of Jev’s spine, each twitching movement of Jev’s body seeming to echo through André, both of them so attuned to each other.

“It’s okay. It’s okay André.” Jev reaches back, bracing himself with one hand and grabbing at André’s arm, trying to soothe him or get him to loosen his grip, André can’t form enough of a coherent thought to distinguish. They build a rhythm, but the blissful grip of Jev’s insides is too good for André to be able to hold it for long. It occurs to him briefly, terrifyingly, that one time they do this will be the last time. Maybe not now, but one time. It’s enough to break him, to make him release his grip and slide one hand around to pull Jev back against his chest, hauling him into a sitting position, biting his shoulder as he fucks his hips up and comes hard into Jev’s body.    

  
The sound of their breathing is harsh in the silence of the room, Jev tipping his head back to rest on André’s shoulder as he catches his breath. André presses his fingers to the marks on Jev’s chest, making him hiss with the sensation, turning his neck just enough for them to kiss without the angle being too awkward. It would be so easy to do this always, to have Jean-Éric belong to him for real. It’s like the final laps of a race, when you’re so far out in front and all you have to do is hold the lead for a few more corners, but those corners feel like light years away, the chequered flag still a dream.

 

They stay like that for long enough that Jev starts to shiver, gooseflesh raised cold on his skin. André rubs his arms to warm him, easing him down onto the bed and carefully withdrawing from his body. He arranges Jean-Éric on his side, legs spread enough that André can lie easily between them to part his ass cheeks, pressing his face into the crease and tonguing at Jean-Éric’s hole. Jean-Éric squirms as André holds him open, murmurs of _please_ and _too much_ escaping his lips as he hides his blushing face, the same as every other time.

“You love this, you’re so filthy,” André says, mouthing at Jev’s balls and then dipping lower to lick over his perineum, cleaning him up and making him jolt and try to inch away. It seems unreal to André that he gets to have Jev like this, that he gets to see this side of him and still race against him. It’s something he knows Jean-Éric never thought possible after the shit that broke him in F1.

Maybe they shouldn’t have given in to it, isn’t André old enough to know which battles he can win and which will leave him getting drunk with James in a bar at the other end of the world.

Jev thrusts back against him, distracting him from the inevitability of it all. It’s easier to lose himself in tonguing at Jean-Éric’s ass, spreading him and prodding at him enough that André’s face is soon wet with his own come. He fingers Jev’s asshole until the Frenchman is almost sobbing, clutching at the pillow and shaking with overstimulation, his muscles twitching against André’s tongue and fingers. His cock has filled out again and it doesn’t take much encouragement from André for him to reach down and jerk himself off, the movement of his hand a counterpoint to the steady fucking of André’s fingers in him, pushing him over the edge again in no time.

André carries on to the limits of what he knows Jev can take before he draws back, moving to lie at Jean-Éric’s side and hold him close, kissing him and letting Jean-Éric lick the spunk from his mouth. He looks so vulnerable, Jev, his cheeks damp and the occasional tremor still shuddering through his body. André pulls the sheets up over them both, cradling Jev in his arms even though doing so means his come smears over both their stomachs. It feels too much like home, safe, perfect. André presses his lips to the soft fuzz of Jev’s hair, closing his eyes. Jean-Éric trusts him, has always been honest with him about what he feels, what he likes. André takes a breath, thinking weirdly about his dad for a second, a piece of advice from years ago.

“Jev?”

Jean-Éric hums, twists to look at him. His expression is unguarded, open. Too much.

André looks away, picks a spot across the room, the shadow of the palms over the wall. “I need you to know that I love you.”       



End file.
